then pouted. ‘Let’s have a coffee first. So – where were you before here?’
‘Here?’ Kate gestured to the building behind them. ‘Nowhere. This is my first job.’
‘Your first – jeez,’ said Charly. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two. I left university this summer.’
‘Oh my god,’ Charly said, peering at her as if she were an exotic specimen. ‘And you started work right away? Didn’t take any time off?’
Kate shook her head uneasily. She didn’t want to disabuse Charly of the notion that she’d gone straight from university to a job, when in fact, she’d had a solitary, dusty summer at home in Kentish Town, slowly driving herself mad with the future. Her anyway-mostly-absent mother and stepfather were in the Hamptons for the summer and incommunicado, Daniel had a new girlfriend and was rarely at home; Zoe had skipped off into a Magic Circle job; so had Steve; Francesca and Betty, two of her closest friends, had gone travelling together for six months, not back till after Christmas. A few weeks ago, Kate had nearly put the phone down on Zoe when she’d told her that Mac, Steve’s older brother, had just been put on some special fast-track system for the best surgeons in the country. People she hadn’t even met were falling over each other to out-do each other, while she had whiled away the dog days of summer, saving up a trip to the newsagents each day. But that was over now, she hoped. OK, it was Woman’s World, it wasn’t Vogue, but it was a start.
‘What’s your ambition, then?’ Charly asked. It was a strangely childish phrase, that; it touched Kate, though she wasn’t sure of the answer. She wrinkled her nose. Charly persisted. ‘What do you want to do, what’s your dream job, I mean?’
It was what Sue Jordan, her new boss, had asked her, a month ago, at her job interview, and Kate gave the same answer then, as now. She looked over and above Charly, to the shelves behind the counter in the little restaurant. They were lined with spreads, old jars, tins. ‘I want to work in magazines, that’s all,’ she said. ‘I love them.’
‘Really?’ Charly sounded dubious. But Kate had heard it before.
‘Yeah,’ she said, smiling, and shaking her head. ‘I was a geek all through school, and the one thing I loved that wasn’t geeky was Vogue. Don’t know why, just did.’ She did know why, though; it was the entrée into a world she wasn’t part of, a world she could only aspire to: glamour, style, elegance, beautiful clothes. It wasn’t the posh people she was interested in; it was something more fleeting than that – she supposed it was the idea of a blueprint for how to live your life. With style, flair, purpose, and organization. The cold, beautiful women in those magazines, they weren’t ignored by boys, or by their co-workers, they didn’t have mothers who left them, fathers who were messy and annoying. They – all of them, whether they were the writers, the models, the society people – they had black shift dresses, scented candles, fresh linen. Boughs of apple blossom in big glass vases, thick black velvet evening cloaks – that sort of thing. She loved magazines, that was all; the smell of the new pages, the sheen of the pictures, the slice of life, the answers to her curious questions about things, how other people behaved, reacted, everything. She was happy simply to observe, she knew that too.
‘Well, good for you,’ Charly said, sounding uncertain. ‘So, you’ll be wanting Sue’s job in a year, then? Better tell her to watch out.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Kate, looking horrified. ‘It’s not –’
‘Calm down,’ said Charly. ‘Don’t get so worked up about it. It’s a job, OK? When you’ve been here for longer you’ll realize it’s not worth having kittens about. Me, I’m happy if it pays me enough to buy a couple of glasses of wine and some new boots every few months.’
‘Really? What do you want to do, then?’ Kate said, curiously.
‘Fuck all,’ said Charly. ‘I want to marry someone rich and go and live in Spain. Have a house here too, in the Bishop’s Avenue. With a heated indoor swimming pool, and lots of Sophie’s friends.’ They both laughed; Sue had just signed off a feature that morning about the millionaires’ row of houses in North London, and Sophie had spent a lot of time saying in a Very Loud Voice that she knew someone who lived there. ‘I think she’s reading the A-Z wrong. It’s probably Bishop’s Avenue in Acton, more like,’ Charly had said loudly that morning, and Kate had smiled, as Sophie turned on her heel and flounced back to her desk.
‘Hey,’ Charly added, as they laid their money on the table. ‘You been to the Atlas pub? Round the corner from the office?’
‘No,’ said Kate.
‘It’s nice. Fancy a quick drink there tonight?’
‘Really?’ Kate said, then corrected herself. ‘That’d be great.’ She looked at her companion. ‘Thanks, Charly.’
‘What for?’ Charly slung her bag over her shoulder, and pulled out the hair that was trapped underneath it. She shook her head, and the waiters in the café watched in adoration. Like a Timotei ad, Kate thought with amusement.
‘Just – thanks for asking me out to lunch and stuff,’ she said, as they stepped out onto the street. ‘It’s weird when you start a new job. Not knowing anyone, you know.’
‘Course I know,’ said Charly. She didn’t look at Kate. ‘When I joined last year no one spoke to me for three weeks. Hey.’ She pushed her hair out of her face. ‘I reckon we could be a bit of a team, don’t you think? Show Sophie and Jo and Georgina, those bitches, show them we’ve got our own thing going on. OK?’
‘I’m not bothered about them,’ Kate said, surprising herself.
‘Sure, whatever,’ said Charly darkly, and Kate wondered which one of them had incurred her wrath. ‘No worries.
But still, we’re going to stick together. I’ve decided. You up for a drink then?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I’ll see who else is around, too. Introduce you to some other people. We’re going to have a great time.’
The sun was warm on Kate’s hair; she felt relaxed, herself, for the first time since she’d started there. ‘Great,’ she said, as they turned the corner and walked up towards their building.
‘Look at that loser over there, with the Beckham haircut,’ said Charly, flinging her arm out so that she nearly knocked over a teenage boy who was staring at her. ‘What a jackfruit.’
The loser with the Beckham haircut was coming out through the revolving doors. He raised his sunglasses and smiled at them. He was extremely good looking.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ Kate said, then wished she hadn’t.
‘You never called me back, Charly,’ he said, looking hopefully at her. ‘When are we going out again?’
‘Fuck off, Ian,’ said Charly. ‘It’s not happening. Kate, I’ve got to get some gear from the postroom. See you later, OK? Atlas, straight after work? I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘Great,’ said Kate, and Ian stared at her, annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect face.
That
